


Be Cruel to Me Because I’m a Fool for You

by cinnamon_skull



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Aged-Up Damian Wayne, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, M/M, Pining, Power Dynamics, Rimming, Sexual Tension, Smut, everyone is bad at feelings, side JayTim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 03:50:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8085943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamon_skull/pseuds/cinnamon_skull
Summary: Dick and Damian are the cruelest kind of lovers.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Reyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyn/gifts).



> Written for DickDami Week! Endlessly late, as usual. 
> 
> Thank you to Reyn for hosting such an amazing thing and basically not giving a shit. A true hero - and she doesn't even wear a mask. : )
> 
> ATTN: Damian Wayne is aged up significantly in this work, which takes place in a universe similar but not exact to canon. He is in his mid-twenties. REPEAT - Dick and Damain did not engage in any sexual activity when Damian was a teenager. They did not act on any feelings until Damian was over the age of 18. Just to be very, very clear. Everyone is an adult making adult decisions.

1.

“Can I get you a drink?”

Dick keeps his eyes on the abstract painting in front of him. It’s a blur of blue over textured white and yellow, and it reminds him of moonless nights in Bludhaven. And for some reason, burnt toast.

“Martini, if you have it,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets. The gesture is intended to look careless and easy, but Dick knows it gives more away than he wants.

There’s a pause and then an inelegant snort, almost crass sounding in the near-empty room. “Clear alcohols are for trophy wives and James Bond fanboys.”

Dick hums in agreement, slanting his eyes toward his left to catch a pair of perfectly tailored slacks and leather capotes in his peripheral vision. “I’m a bit of both, wouldn’t you say?”

“Don’t be so plebian,” comes the snooty reply, closer this time. Dick feels the heat of another body just behind him, and it makes the back of his neck prickle in anticipation.

“You asked.”

There’s a stretch of silence again, but Dick finds it harder to get lost in the pull of the painting’s brush strokes. He’s too busy listening for the sound of footsteps against polished oak floors, but they remain, remarkably, alone in this corner of the gallery.

“I’m told this one will sell for over a million tonight,” the visitor comments in a low drawl that Dick feels at the base of his spine.

Dick lets his eyes drift from the painting to take in the familiar image of the man standing next to him. Brown skin and powerful muscles poured into a well-made suit, sharp eyes still following paint splatters against canvass.

But the slight curve to Damian’s bottom lip tells a different story about what’s captured his attention.

“What can I say,” Dick shrugs, and waits until Damian catches his eyes on him. “I have expensive tastes.”

Something shifts in Damian’s face, his features tightening. He’s always been so subtle in revealing his pleasure, his body a still lake in the wake of Dick’s wild exuberance. Damian is the air before an electrical storm — deceptively calm but heavily charged, the sharp smell of something ready to catch fire.

And yet, Dick knows he’s said the right thing with the way Damian’s eyes narrow and flick back up to his face. It’s only a fleeting look, but it’s dark and promising, and Dick instantly wants more.

“I hadn’t heard you were back in town,” Damian says casually, his gaze back on the blues and yellows.

Dick hears the unspoken accusation there, and he winces a little. Truthfully, he’d been back in Bludhaven for going on two weeks, but he’d been keeping a low profile after the bloodbath in Berlin.

The sound of people entering the room stalls their conversation, and it’s Damian’s turn to slide his hands into his pockets, ruining the crisp line of his suit.

“Oh, Mr. Wayne,” says a breathy voice from behind them, words stretched out slow like honey. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Dick tosses a look over his shoulder to see a leggy blond in a red strapless dress approach, her swift gait not impeded in the slightest by the height of her heels. She’s grasping a gold phone in her hands, her fingers flying over the screen in a flurry of movement as she approaches.

“Seraphina,” Damian greets in that surly way of his, but he still leans down to stiffly kiss the side of her cheek when she gets close enough. He’s taller than her by several inches, even with the extra boost of her heels.

A group of rich socialites begin to file slowly into the room, hands full of champagne and heads full of out-dated idealism. They smell like old money and walk like they’re dragging deep pockets, and Dick has no doubt they’ll shell out millions for shitty, burnt toast canvasses just to try and impress another Wayne.

The woman in the red dress has her fingers wrapped around Damian’s arm, despite the fact that he’s so obviously humoring her.

Out of all the Wayne heirs, Damian is the one the papers favor the least. He has Bruce’s looks but not nearly half his charisma, and his legendary short-temper and frank disposition fail to capture the hearts of the masses — or sell cover stories. He doesn’t have Tim’s polished fluidity when it comes to slipping between masks — and he certainly doesn’t play politican very well. Out of everyone, he reminds Dick most of Jason with his headstrong codes, but he doesn’t possess an ounce of Jason’s easy charm. Gotham watched him grow from an outspoken little boy into a sullen, powerful man, slowly shadowing Bruce’s footsteps at W.E.

Even still, Damian exudes his own kind of raw magnetism that makes people want to be near him, even if they know he’s likely to bite. He has, in the past, and they still show up with their throats and wrists bared for the occasion.

The room is busy enough that it’s easy for Dick to fade into the background — he hasn’t been to a Wayne charity event in years, and most of the regulars have forgotten him by now. He catches some provocative stares from a few beautiful women, but Dick doesn’t stop to flirt as he makes his exit.

Instead, he cuts his way through the gallery to the nearest bar — a fancy marble set up at the mouth of a great hall with a perfect view of the building’s rooftop garden. He orders himself the martini that Damian had promised.

Two sips in and Tim drops into the empty seat next to him, looking devastating in a grey tailored suit.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

Dick pulls Tim into a bear hug that makes him squawk and windmill his arms in discomfort, and suddenly their kids again, elbowing each other for the best seat in the manor’s entertainment room. He’s smiling when Dick let’s go to ruffle his hair; Tim’s the only one in the family that will tolerate his need to physically demonstrate his happiness.

Laughter pulls Dick’s attention to the crowd gathered several feet away from the bar. “Just enjoying the view,” he tells Tim, his eyes drinking in Damian’s strong profile from across the room.

Tim pulls a face and waves an uncomfortable hand, “Never mind.” He takes a sip from the champagne flute he brought with him, which looks suspiciously to Dick like sparkling apple cider. “I don’t want to hear about _that_.”

“Fine,” Dick smiles, tilting his head and giving Tim a once over. He looks good, happy even. There’s still purple shadows pooling under his eyes, but he’s always worn exhaustion well; better than Bruce, even. A silver fox is eyeing him up further down the bar, but Tim’s not paying attention, as usual. For someone so perceptive in the field, Tim remains oblivious to his own handsomeness. “Let’s talk about you.”

Tim shrugs, taking another sip of his drink. He’s trying to go for casual, but there’s something off about the way he keeps smoothing down his tie. “Nothing new to report.”

“Yeah?” Dick says, and then whistles when he sees it. A dark bruise just underneath the careful fold of Tim’s shirt collar. “Who gave you that hickey, huh?”

“Damn.” Tim’s hand shoots up to cup the side of his neck. “Steph said this concealer would last the whole night.”

Dick raises his eyebrows at that. Last he heard, Steph was just a friend. The two of them have a complicated history, but then again, they were all getting older. Sometimes things worked better the second time around.

“That’s not what I meant.” Tim’s flush is endearing, and Dick fights the urge to pull his little brother into another hug. “She didn’t give it to me. The mark, I mean.”

Dick waits for Tim to tell him who did, but he just sighs and runs a careful hand through his hair instead. “The relationship is...new,” Tim says, finally. “I don’t know what to call it.”

“I get,” Dick says, and it’s the truth. He knows how important it is, in their line of work, to have something all to yourself. Tim looks relieved, and Dick decides he doesn’t care who it is all that much, as long as Tim is happy.

“Thanks, Dick.”

“What are big brothers for?” Dick says, after finishing the rest of his martini. “Now buy me another drink, rich boy.”

Tim waves a hand at the bartender and points to Dick’s drink. “Does Bruce know you’re back?”

Dick frowns and tries to hide the way his shoulders tense. “I didn’t tell him, but I’m sure he knows.”

 _“Ahh,”_ Tim gives him a sympathetic look. “So that’s still going on.”

“Is anyone in this family ever not fighting with him?”

Tim’s thumb traces the rim of his glass, his eyes cast down in thought. “Not everyone in the family is fucking his son.”

Dick wants to laugh at how uncomfortable Tim looks, but the statement is true. “You don’t have to say it like that.”

“How should I say it?” There’s a sudden edge to Tim’s voice, and Dick knows he’s just being protective of Damian, even with their spotty track record. The two of them still get into brawls every few months, their temperaments always at odds. And Dick knows Tim still holds a grudge that Damian was handed the mantle of Robin so easily, back then. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“One side of it,” Dick says, reluctantly. He gives a pointed look at the bruise on the side of Tim’s neck. “I wouldn’t hurt him.”

Just like that, all the fight goes out of Tim. “I know. _I know._ It’s just… a little weird, still, I guess.”

Dick nudges Tim with his knee, tries to lighten the mood. He didn’t come here to fight or stir up trouble. “I guess this makes you Bruce’s favorite now.”

Tim snorts. “I doubt that. I doubt that very, very much.”

Before Dick can properly analyze exactly what Tim means by that, a short man in a black tux is standing behind them, a small clipboard tucked under one arm. He puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder, leans down to whisper something in his ear. Whatever he says makes Tim pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Ugh,” Tim says to Dick. “I hate making speeches. Trade places with me?”

“Not a chance.” Dick takes another sip of his martini. “I served my time, Timbo.”

“It’s a life sentence,” Tim responds, but squeezes Dick’s shoulder when he says it. “Don’t be a stranger, alright?”

“Okay.” He watches Tim retreat back into the party and thinks about how good he is at everything, especially playing host at swanky events. Dick has always been good at schmoozing and flirting and making Gotham’s socialites like him, but people actually believe in Tim.

As guests begin to make their way to the open atrium at the center of the gallery, Dick realizes he’s lost sight of Damian. With the auction about to start, he knows he’s probably missed his chance to persuade Damian away from his duties.

He’s about to call it a night, fall back into the anonymity of Gotham’s streets and get lost in the feel of his old city beneath his feet, when he hears the sound of familiar footsteps.

Damian’s behind him again, and the earlier tension from the art gallery has followed them, rousing and threatening, like the red dot sight of an unseen marksman. His breath fans out across the back of Dick’s neck, quiet and controlled, and Dick doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to Damian being taller than him. Dick tilts his head to the side, exposing the fragile arch of his neck.

His offering is refused, trumped by the feel of Damian’s fingers around his arm, pulling him past the elevators and into a private bathroom just off the grand staircase.

As soon as they’re alone, Damian’s body crowds him against the door and fills up the small space with his broad shoulders and his commanding presence. It’s hard to read the expression on his face in the darkness with only a thin line of light up from under the door illuminating the room. He’s not touching Dick anywhere, but his eyes are heavy as they skim across his face and down the front of his suit.

Dick licks his lips and watches Damian’s eyes sharpen beneath his lids. “What are you doing?”

There’s a huff of hot air against Dick’s temple, followed by a hiss when Dick’s hands settle on either side of Damian’s ribs. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

Damian's voice is pitched low in annoyance but there’s a breathless note that sounds almost gentle in the small space between them.

Dick grins and tilts his head up so Damian can see it. “Did you miss me?”

“You never listen,” Damian says sharply.

Dick’s hands dance in slow arcs to the front of Damian’s suit, until he can wrap his fingers against thin lapels and tug hard enough to pull them even closer. Damian’s thigh slips between Dick’s spread legs, and Dick lets out a raspy, pleased sound that makes Damian’s entire body shudder.

“You did miss me,” Dick says, pleased by the response.

It’s always like this; Dick’s a cannon ball of energy and restless hands, looking for that next edge to pull them both over, adrenaline making his blood hot and pulsing with impatient need. And Damian always lies in wait, stoic and still in his desire.

Damian braces his hands against the bathroom door alongside Dick’s head, and Dick takes the opportunity to press his lips into the soft skin of Damian’s neck. He smells like brandy and the manor, and it’s all Dick can do not to leave marks between the tendon’s of Damian’s throat with his teeth.

“Don’t you have paintings to sell?” Dick asks before giving in and sucking a mouthful of Damian’s honey skin.

“Let them wait,” Damian growls, before finally, _finally_ leaning down to capture Dick’s lips in a heated kiss. Dick wastes no time in opening for Damian, groaning at the first feel of velvet heat against his lips. Unlike his earlier aloofness, the kiss is demanding and rough, and the corner of Damian’s sharp canine catches against Dick’s bottom lip hard enough to make him throw his head back in pleasure.

“What about Seraphina?” Dick teases, reaching up to trace the pout of Damian’s bee-stung lips with his thumb. Damian’s stare is wild, the green of his eyes a dark forest. “Won’t she be lonely without you?”

Damian grabs his hand with steely fingers, halting Dick’s exploration of his lips. “Stop talking nonsense, Grayson.”

“I thought you liked it when I get, _ahh,_ vocal,” Dick gasps when Damian draws the vulnerable skin of his wrist into his hot mouth, then drags his teeth across his pulse at the same time that he presses his thigh more firmly between Dick’s legs.

He sees the razor edge of Damian’s smirk against his wrist, and it makes him hungry for so much more. Damian’s thigh is strong and warm as it presses slowly against his arousal, and everything narrows to the sound of Damian’s breathing and the possessive pull of his lips against Dick’s skin.

Dick wants to sink to his knees, get his hands around Damian’s hips and push his face against his crotch until Damian’s begging for it. “I want to suck you,” he says, just to feel the heady weight of the words against his tongue.

A low, desperate sound escapes Damian’s lips. He rocks forward on his feet, covering Dick’s body with his own until they’re touching everywhere. His mouth hovers over Dick’s, teasing, until he surges forward to claim him again. The rough slide of their lips, again and again, until it’s more teeth than anything else, leaves them both panting.

“Later?” Dick asks, when Damian moves his head down to bite at the vulnerable skin of Dick’s throat. “Tonight?”

It’s cold when Damian pulls away. There’s heat gathered at the tops of his cheekbones and his shoulders move with labored breaths, and Dick feels another wave of pleasure for being the one responsible for this minor crack in Damian’s control.

“Are you leaving again?” Damian asks carefully.

“No.” Dick smooths the top of Damian’s hair, before dragging a thumb against one cheekbone. “I’m back in Bludhaven for awhile.”

Damian’s eyes slant to the sides of Dick’s face, his expression hidden beneath heavy eyelids. Dick knows he’s the one who disappeared after the way things went down three months ago, chaotic and more than a little messy. They need to talk before they can pick up where they left off.

“Will I see you later?” Dick asks again, refraining from adding the please that bubbles up at the back of his throat.

Dick watches the way Damian’s throat works as he swallows, the way his features sharpen under the sound of Dick’s desperation. “Yes,” he says, slowly. His arm brushes against Dick as he reaches around him for the door handle. “You will.”

It’s a threat and a promise melted into the hardened, polished-oak cadence of Damian’s voice, and it makes Dick’s knees go week.

Damian notices — of course he does — and raises an eyebrow as he passes. “I don’t like to be kept waiting,” he throws over his shoulder, before disappearing into the empty hall, back into the gallery.

Dick sighs and spends ten minutes running cold water over his hands, splashing some on the back of his neck until he feels somewhat normal again. It’s always been this way — Damian, simmering and wild just under the skin, every shared looked making Dick feel like he’s flying and falling over and over again.

When he makes his way back into the hall, someone else is waiting for him.

“Mr. Grayson,” says a man a little older than Dick, with thighs thick as tree trunks. It’s almost comical, the image he makes stuffed into a formal suit. His greying hair is cropped close to his skull, drawing attention to his tell-tale earpiece. Dick scans him for weapons and calculates no less than three guns hidden beneath his jacket.

Dick crosses his arms. “Yeah?” he says, even though he already knows what’s coming.

“Mr. Wayne would like a word with you.”

Dick’s stomach sinks. He knew, of course, that Bruce would try to contact him eventually. But he’d timed tonight’s visit well, thought that Bruce had been caught up in something with the Justice League just outside of Gotham.

Dick let’s himself be escorted down the elevator, his shoulders slumped against the wall and his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Let me guess,” he says, turning a lazy look on his babysitter. “You’re not big on smalltalk.”

A muscle ticks in the guy’s jaw, but he keep his eyes trained on the metal elevator doors. When they reach the ground floor, Dick’s ushered into the back of black SUV that’s parked outside the entrance.

He looks back up at the building, and he thinks he sees someone in a brown leather jacket smoking on the terrace. But when he shifts in his seat to get a better look, there’s nothing but iron bars and green, climbing ivory.

The SUV is empty of course, a mirrored divider separating him from the driver.

Dick rests his forehead against the cool window and resigns himself to his fate. There’s a minibar tucked away in the middle consul, and Dick helps himself to handful of maraschino cherries. He practices throwing them in the air one by one, until he catches them in his open mouth.

The game keeps him occupied until the SUV rolls to a stop, and he does a doubletake before the driver’s popping out of the car and opening the door for him. He steps out and into the lobby of an expensive hotel on the Upper East side of Gotham.

The big guy from the gallery falls in step behind him, nodding to the bellhop and holding a finger to his earpiece. “Penthouse,” he says to Dick when they reach another set of elevators. He presses a special card key into Dick’s hand. “He’ll be expecting you.”

But when he gets to the top floor and the doors open into a sprawling apartment, there’s no one there. There isn’t much of anything at all.

Sure, the space is luxurious in that dark leather, old money kind of way, mixed with chrome surfaces and marble coffee tables. There aren’t many personal items, but on his second circuit through the penthouse, Dick finds something.

There’s a jacket thrown over the back of an office chair, and when Dick brings it to his nose, it smells like… “Damian,” he says in the quiet room.

Everything falls into place.

Mystery solved, Dick rifles through the well-stocked freezer and pulls out a frozen bottle of Grey Goose. He pours himself a glass and takes it to Damian’s bedroom. The sheets are crisp and unwrinkled and the pillow looks unused.

Dick pulls off his own jacket and untucks his shirt from his dress pants before spreading out across Damian’s bed.

Then he waits.

 

 

 

2.

When he wakes up, it’s very dark outside, a half-moon hanging low against midnight blue.

Damian’s across the bedroom, two glasses full of something honey-gold in his hands. His hair is damp, and he’s not wearing his black-tie outfit from earlier. Instead, he’s dressed down in an old t-shirt and tight sweatpants, somehow making casual look expensive.

There is still something beautifully venomous about Damian stillness, unsaid words coiled tightly at the back of his tongue, waiting to strike.

“Is that whiskey?” Dick asks, his nose scrunched in distaste. He doesn’t care what it is, not really. He only wants to get Damian talking, so he can listen for the warning rattle of his voice.

“Cognac,” Damian corrects smoothly, pressing one of the rocks glasses into Dick’s hands. He lets his finger pull across the back of Dick’s hand when he does it, a fleeting, burning taunt. “Seraphina bought me an expensive bottle from France.”

“Aww,” Dick murmurs, lifting the drink to his nose. It smells nutty and rich, and a little like wild flowers soaked in gasoline. “Sweet of her. Did you let her down gently, I hope?”

Damian sits down on the edge of the bed and scoffs. His back is to Dick as he watches the lit up city through the glass balcony doors. “When have I ever been gentle?”

Dick thinks about Alfred the Cat and Titus, and all the animals that have come after and hides his smile in the crook of his arm. He digs through his pocket for his phone and swipes the screen to check the time. “You let me sleep?”

Damian hums, shrugging his shoulders. “Drake disappeared after his speech. I had to look for him.”

“New beau?” Dick guesses.

The words make Damian turn to look sharply in Dick’s direction, one elegant eyebrow raised. There’s an ugly twist to his lips and he thinks Damian probably got an eyeful of something he wishes he could scrape from his eyeballs. “He told you?”

Dick gestures to his neck with a finger, taps the skin near his pulse. “I saw.”

“Disgusting,” Damian sneers, but it lacks any real heat. Tim’s always been a welcome inconvenience in Damian’s life, someone to admire from a distance and goad with his barbed insults to bury the depth of his respect.

Dick thinks back to the guy on the terrace with the brown jacket, and Tim’s reluctance to give Dick a name during their conversation. “Todd?” he guesses.

“They deserve each other,” Damian responds, pausing to take a small sip of his drink. Dick can see his profile, one side of his face illuminated by a lamp on the nightstand, all warm yellow washed against the dark brown of his skin. He looks like the rich, soiled floor of a dense forest, something both warm and treacherous, and Dick wants to get lost in the unmarked trails of his body.

He wonders if Damian’s lips will taste like burnt petals when he kisses him between the sharp edges of his teeth. “New place?” he asks, instead.

“No.”

Dick sets his glass down the nightstand closest to him. “Do you stay here a lot?”

“Sometimes.” The warning rattle in the hiss of his s’s tells Dick more than Damian ever could. All the tension and anticipation has made Dick hard in his pants, already.

“Damian…” Dick breathes.

Damian turns to face him then, knees resting on the bed and one hand fisted in the silky bedspread. “Are you leaving?” It’s the same question he’d asked earlier, a thousand times more intense.

“I’m staying.”

“Liars are worse than cowards,” Damian grins. He could burn down whole cities with that terrible smile.

“I’m staying,” Dick repeats and holds out and open palm. Damian won’t make him promise, but he’s not above making him beg, either. “I’m not leaving again.”

Damian ignores Dick’s hand for his thigh, his fingers digging in warmly just above his knee.

“Did you miss me?” Dick asks again. He’d like to hear Damian say it, even if he already knows the answer.

“No,” Damian answers, followed by a squeeze of his hand higher up on Dick’s thigh. “Do you want to...”

He doesn’t finish. He almost never finishes sentences like that, even though Dick knows there’s more he wants to say. Maybe … _Do you want to touch me? Do you want me? Do you know that I hate that I love you?_

“No,” Dick says calmly and watches the fire ignite in Damian’s eyes. “I want you to fuck me,” he finishes, before Damian can snatch his hand away.

There is a victory in the quickness of Damian’s breath, in the swift movements of his fingers at the back of Dick’s neck. He’s a flurry of controlled chaos around Dick’s body, pulling and pressing and molding them together until Damian can kiss the hollow of Dick’s throat.

“Will you?” Dick begs, pushing into the warm heat of Damian’s mouth, baring his neck to the razor edge of Damian’s teeth. “I need — ”

“I’m not usually so agreeable,” Damian mouths against Dick’s skin, one of his hands snaking up to cover Dick’s mouth. “Must be the Cognac — it is very expensive.”

Dick licks Damian’s palm until he relents and slides two fingers into Dick’s mouth. It’s everything he’s been thirsting after all night, sweet and bitter and dirty.

Damian laughs. “Don’t be so eager, Grayson. It ruins the mood.”

“Just fuck me already,” Dick says around a mouthful of fingers. Damian’s always been a mean lover, and Dick’s always encouraged it. Growing up, Dick had had it easy; every pretty girl or boy fell for his rugged smile, his pretty blues — flower petals caught in the current of Dick’s charm. Not Damian — he makes everything difficult, delaying pleasure until it builds almost painfully in Dick’s chest and between his legs.

“Be quiet,” Damian says at the same time that he flips Dick so his stomach is pressed into the soft mattress beneath.

Dick doesn’t have time to talk back. One of Damian’s hands is pressed into the back of Dick’s neck holding him in place, while his other works to pull down Dick’s slacks over the curve of his ass. The pressure of Damian’s fingers combined with Damian’s warm breath against the skin of his lower back makes Dick squeeze his eyes shut in pleasure.

Damian’s mouth is wet and hot between his legs. Both his hands grip the back of Dick’s thighs and then higher, spreading Dick’s skin and making him cry out at the burning heat of Damian’s mouth.

 _“Damian,”_ Dick chokes out when Damian’s tongue pushes inside, tasting him with slow, careful strokes.

 _“Damian, Damian, Damian,”_ Dick repeats when Damian adds lubed fingers between long, slow flicks with the flat of his tongue. His says Damian’s name for a while, until his moans are just phantom shapes of the word, ragged and drawn out and helpless.

It feels like Dick is breaking and mending and breaking all over again, his cock pressed tightly against his belly and Damian lips on his core.

“Ready?” Damian asks wetly, drawing one of Dick’s asscheeks into his mouth and biting down hard, probably drawing blood to the surface.

If Dick ever had wings at Nightwing, Damian had scratched them off with his fingernails and made them his own a long time ago. He could never control Damian — and he’d never wanted to, not back then and not now.

“Yes,” Dick sobs against a pillow. _“Please.”_

When Damian enters him, it’s a slow burn of such exquisite pleasure Dick thinks he might die. Damian’s fingers push the back of Dick’s shirt up so he can palm the curve of his spine, watch the splay of muscles in his tensed shoulders.

A few languid, teasing cants of Damian’s hips follow, and Dick is back to sucking air through his teeth. And then Damian strikes, yanking Dick up by the hair at the back of his head, bowing his back and making him arch back up into Damian.

“Are you going to leave?” Damian hisses into his ear, the movements of his hips increasing deliciously, dangerously. At this angle, Damian’s brushing that spot inside Dick that makes his vision blur with every thrust. “And let someone else have all _this_?”

“There isn’t anyone else,” Dick chokes back, pushing back into Damian. “Not for either of us.”

“Yes.” Damian latches on to Dick’s neck, marking him again. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” Dick chants, the tension in his lower back peaking. His vision is whiting out at the edges, and he knows Damian can feel how tight he is around his cock. “I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours.”

They come together like that, feeling everything and then noting all at once, lit matches and then smoke.

Damian pulls Dick to him, wraps his arms around him until Dick’s head is resting against Damian’s naked chest — he'd tossed his shirt somewhere. There’s a heartbeat beneath Dick's ear, thump thump thumping out some kind of lost language.

“I’m yours,” Dick mumbles into Damian’s skin, because it feels important to say it again.

Damian strokes his fingers through Dick’s bangs. “I know. I want...” his voice drifts off.

Dick hears the unspoken words anyway, presses himself closer to Damian's heart. “Me too.”

Even the cruelest of lovers have their tender moments. 

 

 

 

 


End file.
